Homecoming
by artemis-nz
Summary: Kindness, unspoken and uncomplicated, has always been at the core of their relationship. Athos/Porthos/Aramis. (Could be seen as either slash or gen, depending on your fancy.)


**Characters based on those portrayed in the BBC's 2014 television series, 'The Musketeers'.**

* * *

They've collapsed in a heap at one or another of their lodgings after long evenings of drinking, pressed shivering bodies together to get through chilly nights stuck outdoors for the cause of king and country, and generally spent enough time in company – both inadvertently and not – to know a good deal about each others' sleeping habits.

Porthos, Athos knows, is a heavy sleeper, but a lively one. He twitches like a puppy chasing shadows, and sprawls out like one as well. He sometimes mutters things under his breath (mostly unintelligible), and has been known to practically smother either Athos or Aramis – whoever happens to be closest at the time – in his animated slumber.

Despite this, Porthos also sleeps like the dead. Restless he might seem, but he is also notoriously difficult to wake at the best of times, and Athos has no idea how on earth his friend ever makes it to the garrison in time for roll call.

Aramis, on the other hand, is in many ways the polar opposite. A log in the forest could scarcely be more quiet (well, a log that's given to the occasional snore, anyway), and sometimes he sleeps so still that Athos gets the uncharacteristic urge to check whether the man is even still drawing breath.

Contrary to appearances however, Aramis is a surprisingly light sleeper. He wakes at the barest touch of a hand on his shoulder, the smallest of misplaced creaks. Athos doesn't believe he's ever met a musketeer who's so normally relaxed when awake, yet so attentively alert in his rest.

Athos himself doesn't sleep much. Not because he lacks trust in his comrades, but rather because he fears what others will see or hear – especially whenever he has not had enough wine to keep his eyes shut and his mind firmly shuttered against stray thoughts until daybreak.

He is not embarrassed about his dreams – not exactly. Athos is hardly the only musketeer to suffer from a nightmare or two, the odd painful remembrance. What stirs Athos in the night makes him no less brave or skillful a fighter, no more weak or contemptible a man. In their line of work, unconsciously reliving past mistakes or bloody deeds is all but guaranteed; Athos knows of no individual alive with iron control over their sleeping mind (much as he wishes for such a power).

He witnesses Porthos scream himself awake once, and then begin desperately to run his hands over his wrists – shackles, Athos wonders? – before Athos and Aramis can finally instill calm enough in their friend that he drops off again into a fitful doze. Even then, Porthos continues to shudder, and calls out once in the indistinct and broken voice of a lost child for his mother. There's no embarrassment the next day – if Porthos remembers what happened, he gives no indication, and neither Athos nor Aramis think the worse of him for it.

Aramis, too, is no stranger to bad memories. His dreams, judging by his reactions upon waking, are filled with the scattered, severed bodies of past brothers-in-arms. All musketeers are inevitably confronted with death – usually not pretty – at some point in their careers, but Aramis has perhaps seen more than many. It would take a callous man indeed to remain entirely unaffected by the injury and loss of fellow soldiers, and Aramis is, at heart, an idealist. He jerks himself awake sometimes, nearly always completely noiselessly, but Athos can tell from his breathing when Aramis is rattled. He may strive not to show it, but there is enough pain and enough guilt behind that steadfast demeanor that Athos feels oddly compelled to slip an arm around him anyway, and pull Aramis close until his staccato heartbeat finally slows.

Athos, meanwhile, does everything in his power to dream as little as possible. The others often don't get enough sleep as it is, and Athos reasons that he might as well be the only one with dark rings under his eyes the following morning rather than all three of them.

So he thinks, until the night inevitably falls that his body betrays him, and he finds himself trapped amidst a veritable army of his own personal demons, despite his best efforts.

Even knowing full well it's only a dream, fighting tooth and nail to make his way back to the world of the living, it is painful – too painful to bear in silence. All the things he has so carefully hidden away, hoarded to himself deep in the recesses of his heart, come tumbling out of him; a wave of recollections he is unable to shut the door on. And he is drowning in them – disembodied whispers in his ear, the creaking sway of a rope, smoke crowding in his lungs and causing his eyes to water. He is clawing, gasping, pleading, sinking, sobbing-

-A rough shaking. Dim candlelight on his face, chasing the phantoms away for the briefest of moments – just long enough to find himself again, become mindful of his traitorously trembling limbs, feel the wetness real on his cheeks.

Athos supposes he should feel humiliated, but the hands wiping the tears away are non-accusatory. He forces himself to look up, only to find that there is the expected sympathy waiting for him, but no pity as he half-feared there would be. No words, either, because all have come to realise that these are often unnecessary. Kindness, unspoken and uncomplicated, has always been at the core of their relationship – Athos is suddenly a little ashamed that it has taken him this long to fully acknowledge what has always been right in front of him, and offered freely.

But their understanding, for all it gives him courage enough to allow his surrender to such undeserved compassion, comes secondary to their acceptance. Porthos and Aramis might not know exactly what it is that plagues Athos, robbing him of his peace, but they know Athos himself, and yet do not seek to change him. He does not need to be a stronger, friendlier, or better man for them to love him.

Spent, he finds himself pulled softly back down. Someone blows out the candle. On his back and gazing silently up at the ceiling, there are fingers in his hair, fleeting touches on his shoulder, a wordless, satisfied sigh close to his neck. When Athos slips back into sleep, it is to the twin sensation of one man clasped to either side of him, keeping, for now, the terrors of the human heart at bay.

It feels a lot like coming home.


End file.
